I Became a Tycoon During World War I - Chapter 136

Chapter 136: Why Not Break Through with Tanks?

Charles felt lightheaded after just two small glasses.

Later, he would come to understand that the alcohol content of absinthe did not match its pure and delightful color. The weaker varieties were 45%, while the stronger ones could reach a staggering 89.9%.

The bottle that Lieutenant Colonel Fernand had shared with Charles was 50%, which explained his generosity in offering it.

Just as Charles started to feel unsteady, a commotion broke out in the club.

Looking toward the noise, he saw a slightly overweight officer being teased by several other officers.

Whether due to the alcohol or the dim lighting, Charles couldn’t make out the man’s rank. The others were passing around a letter, laughing, while the plump officer anxiously chased after it, shouting angrily.

Lieutenant Colonel Fernand merely chuckled and sipped his drink without intervening.

Such antics were common in the army. Soldiers and officers often entertained themselves by snatching each other’s letters and reading them aloud, a habit that had become second nature over time.

A nimble officer eventually caught the letter, jumped onto a sofa, and began to read: “My dearest Lucia…”

Another round of laughter erupted in the club. It turned out to be a love letter addressed to a barmaid. Some officers even called out to the barmaid, “Hey, Lucia, how many does this make?”

Lucia merely smiled faintly as she poured a drink from her shaker into a glass, showing no reaction to the teasing. She seemed well-accustomed to such incidents.

The plump officer looked thoroughly embarrassed, fumbling awkwardly under the taunts of his peers.

Just as they were about to read more of the letter, Charles couldn’t hold back any longer and spoke up: “That’s enough. Give him back his letter!”

The officers froze for a moment before bursting into laughter. They began shouting:

“Mind your own business, Lieutenant!”

“This isn’t your place to speak!”

One of them even called out to Fernand: “Lieutenant Colonel, shouldn’t you control your men?”

Fernand’s face darkened as he retorted, “You all heard him. Return the letter.”

The officers exchanged puzzled glances, some of them recognizing Fernand and even having friendly relations with him, as they were regulars at the club.

Fernand, however, showed no leniency. He asked coldly, “If it isn’t Charles’s place to speak, then whose is it? Step forward and let me see.”

The club fell silent as all eyes turned toward Charles. Even Lucia looked at him with a mixture of shock and curiosity, seemingly realizing for the first time that Fernand’s previous words about Charles might be true.

After some murmured discussion, the officers returned the letter to the plump man. A few even offered mock salutes to Charles:

“Our apologies, Lieutenant!”

“We didn’t know it was you. I apologize for my rudeness!”

…

The plump officer hastily grabbed the letter, cast a quick glance at Lucia, nodded at Charles in gratitude, and hurriedly fled the club.

Charles found the whole situation somewhat tedious, or perhaps he had spoiled the other officers’ fun. He signaled to Fernand to settle the bill and leave.

Afterward, Charles almost forgot the incident entirely. He rarely returned to the officers’ club, unable to find the same sense of relaxation there that Fernand seemed to enjoy.

One thing Fernand had said, however, was true: drinking did help him sleep. Charles drifted into a hazy slumber until dawn, waking only with a slight headache.

…

By mid-October, Paris showed signs of the rainy season’s arrival.

Outside the window, a strong wind howled as dark clouds gathered. Soon, heavy rain poured down amidst thunder and lightning.

Inside the operations office, work continued as usual. Charles was tracking every point along the defensive line based on telegrams from the front.

When Charles had finished sketching out the day’s positions, Gallieni sighed and shook his head. “It looks just like yesterday—not an inch of movement!”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t hope for any breakthroughs,” Charles suggested.

“What do you mean?” Gallieni asked, puzzled.

Charles gestured toward the map. “Stalemate might be the norm. We need to prepare for this to drag on.”

Historically, this front line would remain largely unchanged for the next four years, shifting back and forth like a tug-of-war. The only real change would be the steadily climbing casualty numbers.

Gallieni was unaware of this historical context. He firmly believed the stalemate was only temporary.

After pondering for a moment, he asked thoughtfully, “Why don’t we consider breaking through with tanks?”

He leaned over the map, pointed to a spot, and said, “I think this area is suitable. What do you think?”

As the inventor of the tank and the first commander to win a battle with them, Charles’s opinion was invaluable to Gallieni.

After examining the spot Gallieni indicated, Charles nodded in agreement. “The Lafox region. The terrain is flat, resupply is convenient, and it’s connected by roads suitable for tank maneuvers. It’s a good choice.”

Gallieni traced a small circle along the defensive line with his finger. “Even if we can’t break through the enemy’s defenses, leveling this salient is imperative. The terrain here isn’t favorable for our forces. The high ground occupied by the Germans puts us at a severe disadvantage.”

Suddenly, Gallieni seemed to recall something. He looked up at Charles and said, “By the way, provide me with the information on the tanks currently under development. I need to include them in the wartime procurement regulations—there’s a bid coming up in a few days!”

Charles hesitated before replying, “Apologies, General. I won’t be participating in the bid.”

Gallieni was taken aback. “You’re not participating? Why not?”

Then, realizing something, Gallieni’s expression darkened. “They’re pressuring you, aren’t they? Those bastards!”

“No, General,” Charles quickly clarified. “No one is pressuring me. It’s my own decision.”

Gallieni squinted at Charles, waiting for the truth.

Reluctantly, Charles spun a lie. “I’ve realized we’re too far behind. Participating in the bid would only invite humiliation. So... I’ve decided to focus all my efforts on the next generation of tanks.”

“Is that the truth?” Gallieni asked, his eyes locked on Charles.

Charles could only shake his head. He could fool others, but not Gallieni.

Especially since the Mark I would soon enter mass production—a direct contradiction to his claim of “giving up.” Sooner or later, Gallieni would uncover the truth.

But these matters couldn’t be discussed in the office. Charles glanced toward the lounge, and Gallieni, understanding his cue, picked up a cup of coffee and walked inside.

“I can’t beat my competitors,” Charles admitted. “On paper, their tanks seem superior, but I believe they’ll suffer disastrous failures on the battlefield. So…”

Gallieni cut him off, his tone furious: “So, you plan to wait until they fail in battle before introducing your tanks? While ignoring the soldiers who’ll die in the meantime?”

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